Monthly Archives: March 2026

Righteous riffs

The ‘Emma 2’ ….

Paused at the coffee shop before work for a to-go cortado to shim my Thursday. 

“Pete,” Morgan greeted me when I walked in. 

Her expression seemed sombre, but that could’ve just been a pre-cortado take. 

“I have to give you something,” she said. 

Hands me a hand-written note. 

“Dearest Pete …” it began. 

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Couple years ago I got the best birthday card from my daughter. 

She would’ve made a good cave painter. 

Her accompanying talk track illuminated the epic tale of her seeking counsel from Liam the Wise (whose official title is ‘barrista,’ but in this saga let’s call him “the Oracle”) on what all is involved in getting one’s mug hung on the wall behind the coffee shop’s counter. 

Liam not only offered his wise counsel, but mapped directions to the precise mountain where the monks live who, for hundreds of years, have been humbly practicing their glass making craft of the perfect cortado vessel. 

By which I mean he pointed her to a website. 

Upon procurement of the mug, he told her that I need only bring it in and they would take it from there.

In Emma’s card I knew that I might just be holding the best birthday present I would ever receive.

By which I mean the card, and the heart that made it. 

Ever since, when I walk in and see my mug hanging on the wall where I go to write my weekend medicine, I feel a tinge of what I imagine honored athletes feel seeing their jersey hung in the rafters of where they have done their best work. 

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“My Dearest Pete …,”

The note Morgan handed to me was from Emma. Not my Emma, but Emma who works at the coffee shop. She started while she was still in high school and still works weekends while going to the local college. 

“It breaks my heart to inform you that I accidentally dropped your mug and broke it ….” 

“I need a minute,” I told Morgan, and took a few steps back to read the rest, in which Emma profusely apologized, begged forgiveness and even offered to pay for a replacement. 

She signed her note, “You’re most loyal and sorrowful barista, Emma.”

Which had me smiling by the time I looked up … appreciating that my Thursday morning had just found its shim.

By which I mean the note, and the heart that made it. 

 “She’s so upset,” Morgan said.

I asked when Emma worked next. 

“Saturday,” Morgan said.

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Saturday morning I made sure to arrive when the coffee shop opened at 8:30. 

Emma was at the register, Liam at the espresso machine. 

“I’m so sorry … I’ll buy you a new one,” Emma said as soon as she saw me. 

I just shook my head.

“At least let me buy you your cortado.” 

As Liam went to fire up the espresso machine, I stopped him. 

And handed Emma a note.

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“My dearest Emma, 

You must know that there are few things in this world that I appreciate more than a hand-written note. 

Reading yours brought a spark of joy to my Thursday. 

If my beloved mug had to meet an untimely demise, I am grateful that it was at the hands of one who poured so many hearts into it.

You will not only appreciate that it was Liam who consulted with my daughter (whose name is also Emma) on the exact mug to buy me for my birthday two years ago (which will forever be my favorite birthday present ever), but that, when she did so, it came in a set of two.

So I commission the enclosed to your care … on one condition. 

That you pour the first heart into it.”

She looked up from my note smiling the way her note made me smile. 

“I always carry a spare,” I said, handing over the ‘Emma 2’ … for official christening. 

She asked Liam if they could switch places. 

“Only fitting,” he said. 

“I don’t know,” Emma said sheepishly. “My latte art has been a little shaky … I’m out of practice,” she said. 

“I know you have it inside you … and I mean that sincerely,” said Liam the Wise. 

Told ya’ he’s the Oracle. 

She took her time and filled it above the rim, trusting in the properties of surface tension and gravity to do their good jobs … so she could do hers. 

It’s always magic to me how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I like how they are forgiving that way.

How the universe allows our fragile cups to be filled beyond their measure.  

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Small Things ….

Paused for a coffee on my way to a morning medical appointment. 

Got in line behind a guy in the middle of picking out a bunch of stuff. 

“Gimme a couple of those, and one of those,” he said, pointing at the pile of yesterday’s pepperoni rolls they keep on the counter, and the breakfast burritos warming in a case next to the register. 

Looked to me like he was being spontaneously thoughtful. Like it had just occurred to him to pick up some goodies to surprise whoever his peeps were.

I’m a sucker for spontaneous thoughtfulness. 

After confirming that he meant ‘two’ for ‘a couple,’ the young person behind the counter reached for the pepperoni rolls.

After she picked one up, I heard her say softly to herself, “Oh, that one’s small,” then watched as she put the pepperoni roll she had in her hand back … and pull another out from the bottom of the pile.

The guy didn’t even see her do it. 

Had already skooched to the side to wait for his stuff.

Struck me as both the smallest thing and the biggest thing.  

When it was my turn in line, I told her I appreciated how she put the small one back. 

She smiled. 

“Yeah, I can’t help it,” she said. “I always think about what I’d want, you know?”

I wanted so much to say, “Me too!” 

Because that’s how I think about things … though I don’t sell yesterday’s pepperoni rolls for a living.  

“Even when I pick something out of the case, I try and look for the ‘good’ ones,” she added.

What I loved about how she put it is that I knew exactly what she meant, without having any idea exactly what she meant.

Just that it had nothing to do with whether anybody else noticed.

I don’t know why something so small that wasn’t meant to be seen moved me so much. 

I mean … if they keep sellin’ like yesterday’s hot cakes, somebody might eventually get the pepperoni runt, … so does it even matter? 

I dunno. 

Maybe because it’s been my experience that how you do the small things is how you do the big things. 

Or maybe I just need reminded sometimes that there are others out there trying to look for the good ones, too. 

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Thinking of Timothy ….

Ran into a friend at the coffee shop a couple weeks ago. 

At the end of our brief chat, he invited me to a men’s Bible study he leads on Sunday mornings. 

Said they’d be starting Second Timothy first of the month.

Even though it’s been awhile since I stepped foot in church, I said yes. 

My friend is good light.

So, this morning I found myself gathered around a table with seven other guys. 

My friend began by giving some context around Paul’s second letter to his friend Timothy.

Asked if we had any questions before diving us deeper. 

I had one. 

I asked if it was known whether Paul had any specific expectation, when writing to his friend, that Timothy might share the letter? 

Or, did Paul intended his letter ‘only’ for Timothy? 

My friend said he didn’t really know. Asked the rest of the group. 

They weren’t sure, either. 

Wow, I said out loud. 

Suddenly found myself deeply moved. 

By the humble act of a person who knew they didn’t have much time left, writing a letter of encouragement — from prison, no less — to someone he loved dearly.

No expectations of shares or likes.

Pretty remarkable when you think about it, I said aloud. 

Which part, specifically? A voice at the table asked.  

I mean … the fact of us reading a letter from almost two thousand years ago … written halfway across the world from the church basement where we were gathering … that was aimed at encouraging a single person. 

Just, you know, the miracle of that. 

Prompted the person to my right to mention that recently he helped get a car started over at the local college for a student who had broken down. Said that afterwards, she sent him just the most wonderful letter. How it moved him so much that he took a photo of the card to share it with some folks he knew. 

He quoted a couple lines from it that were still on his heart, so that it could be on our hearts, too.

I told him that he made me grateful I asked the question … for the gift of him sharing the story of his letter.

Ten minutes into a Bible study about a book we hadn’t even cracked open yet … and already a sermon on the power of encouraging one another in trying times.

Anemochory. 

That’s what nature calls it. 

The dispersal of seeds by the wind.

“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God.” 

That’s what Paul calls it. 

“We can’t change anything, but we can influence everything.”

That’s what the social scientist Robert Cialdini calls it. 

Paul could not change the circumstances of his imprisonment. Of his impending death. 

But he could send a letter encouraging his friend.

Regardless of our circumstances, we have agency over how we respond. 

Of the energy we put into the world. 

Paul’s letter to Timothy encourages us — to remember that encouragement is always an option.

Sitting around a table in a church basement grateful for asking questions, I am reminded that by encouraging one, others might be encouraged, too. 

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